The Mountain Shadow

by Gregory David Roberts

  He jabbed two hard fingers into my chest, directly under my heart.

  ‘So glad we never fight, brother,’ I said.

  ‘You take your hand off the knife at your back,’ he said, ‘and I’ll take my hand off mine.’

  We laughed, and shook hands.

  ‘Your Company is keeping us busy,’ he said, spinning the pedal of his bicycle backwards as he held the concrete and steel road divider. ‘I’ll be able to retire, if this keeps up.’

  ‘If your work ever brings you south of Flora Fountain, I’d appreciate a heads-up.’

  ‘You will have it, my brother. Goodbye!’

  Pankaj wheeled his chrome bicycle back into the road. I watched him thread his way through the traffic expertly.

  And before I lost sight of him, in the time it took me to lift my eyes to the sky, I was done. It was over. I was finished with the Sanjay Company, and I knew it.

  I was done. I quit. I’d had enough.

  Faith. Faith is in everything, in every minute of life, even in sleep. Faith in Mother, sister, brother, or friend: faith that others will stop at the red light, faith in the pilot of the plane and the engineers who signed it into the air, faith in the teachers who guard children for hours every day, faith in cops and firemen and your mechanic, and faith that love will still be waiting for you when you return home.

  But faith, unlike hope, can die. And when faith dies, the two friends that always die with it are constancy and commitment.

  I’d had enough. I lost the little faith I’d had in Sanjay’s leadership, and couldn’t respect myself any more for submitting to it.

  Leaving wouldn’t be easy, I knew. Sanjay didn’t like loose ends. But it was done. I was done. I knew that Sanjay would be at home late. I decided to ride to his house before the night was out, and tell him that I quit.

  I looked up at the banner of Leopold’s, and remembered something Karla once said, when we drank too much and talked too much, too long after the doors were closed. Living alone as a freelancer in Bombay, like Didier, she laughed, is a cold river of truth.

  I’d been staring into a splintered mirror, and it was a while since I’d faced alone. I was walking away from a small army, pledged to defend me as a brother in arms. I was losing quasi-immunity from the law, protected by quasi-ethical Company lawyers, just a billable minute away from quasi-ethical judges.

  I was leaving behind close friends who’d faced down enemies with me: men who’d known Khaderbhai, and knew his imperfections, and loved him as I did.

  It was tough. I was trying to walk away from guilt and shame, and it wasn’t easy: guilt and shame had more guns than I did.

  But fear lies, hiding self-disgust in self-justification, and sometimes you don’t know how afraid you were, until you leave all your fearful friends.

  I felt things that I’d justified and rationalised for too long fall like leaves, washed from my body by a waterfall. Alone is a current in truth’s river, like togetherness. Alone has its own fidelity. But when you navigate that closer view of the shore, it often seems that the faith you have in yourself is all the faith there is.

  I took a deep breath, put my heart in the decision, and made a mental note to clean and load my gun.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Kavita Singh, the journalist who was earning a reputation for good writing about bad things people did, leaned back with her chair tipped against the wall. Beside her was a young woman I’d never seen before. Naveen and Divya were on Didier’s left. Vikram was with Jamal, the One Man Show, and Billy Bhasu, both from Dennis’s tomb.

  The fact that Vikram was up and around again after two hours of sleep betrayed the depth of his habit. When you first start on the drug, a high can last twelve hours. When your tolerance crawls into addiction, you need to fix, or search for one, every three to four.

  They were all laughing about something, when I approached the table.

  ‘Hey, Lin!’ Naveen called out. ‘We’re talking about our favourite crime. We all had to nominate one. What’s your favourite crime?’

  ‘Mutiny.’

  ‘An anarchist!’ Naveen laughed. ‘An argument in search of a reason!’

  ‘A reasoned argument,’ I countered, ‘in search of a future.’

  ‘Bravo!’ Didier cried, waving to the waiter for a new round of drinks.

  He moved aside to let me sit. I took the seat next to him, and took the opportunity to pass him Rannveig’s Norwegian passport.

  ‘Vinson will collect it from you, in the next day or two,’ I said quietly.

  I turned my attention to Vikram. He avoided my eyes, and played with a smudge of beer on the table in front of him. I motioned for him to lean close to me.

  ‘What are you doing, Vikram?’ I whispered.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You were out cold two hours ago, Vik.’

  ‘I woke up, man,’ he said. ‘It happens.’

  ‘And these guys, who buy dope, just happen to be with you?’

  He drew away, leaning back in his chair, and spoke to the table.

  ‘You know, Lin, I think you’re mistaking me for someone who gives a shit. But I don’t. And I think I’m not alone. Didier, do you give a shit?’

  ‘Reluctantly,’ Didier replied. ‘And infrequently.’

  ‘How about you, Kavita?’ Vikram asked.

  ‘Actually,’ she replied, ‘I give more than a shit, about a lot of things. And –’

  ‘You know, Lin,’ Vikram said. ‘You used to be a pretty cool guy, yaar. Don’t become just another foreigner in India.’

  I thought about his father’s fear, and how they had to hide their precious things from him, but didn’t respond.

  ‘We’re all foreigners in Bombay, aren’t we?’ Kavita said. ‘I –’

  Vikram cut her off again, reaching out to grasp at Didier’s arm.

  ‘Can we do it now?’

  Didier was shocked. He never did business in Leopold’s. But he took a prepared wad of notes from his pocket, and gave it to Vikram. My proud friend snatched at the money and rose quickly, almost toppling his chair. One Man Show steadied the chair and rose with him. Billy Bhasu was a beat behind them.

  ‘Well . . . I’ll . . . I’ll take my leave,’ Vikram said, backing away and avoiding my eye.

  Billy Bhasu waved a goodbye, and left with Vikram. One Man Show wagged his head, jangling the assembly of gods hanging around his thin neck.

  ‘One Man Show,’ I said.

  ‘One Man Show,’ he replied, and followed the others out of the restaurant.

  ‘What is it, my friend?’ Didier asked me softly.

  ‘I give Vikram money, too. But I always ask myself if I just gave him the shot that kills him.’

  ‘It could also be the one that saves him,’ Didier responded just as quietly. ‘Vikram is sick, Lin. But sick is just another way of saying still alive, and still possible to save. Without help from someone, he might not survive the night. While he’s alive, there’s always a chance for him. Let it go, and relax with us.’

  I glanced around at the others, and shrugged myself into their game.

  ‘So, what about you, Kavita?’ I asked. ‘What’s your favourite crime?’

  ‘Lust,’ she said forcefully.

  ‘Lust is a sin,’ I said. ‘It isn’t a crime.’

  ‘I told her that,’ Naveen said.

  ‘It is the way I do it,’ she retorted.

  Divya broke into helpless giggles, setting the table to laughing with her.

  ‘What about you, Didier?’

  ‘Perjury is the most likeable crime, of course,’ he said, with finality.

  ‘Can I believe you?’ I asked.

  ‘Do you swear?’ Naveen added.

  ‘Because,’ Didier continued, ‘it’s only lying that saves the world from being perman
ently miserable.’

  ‘But isn’t honesty just spoken truth?’ Naveen goaded.

  ‘No, no! Honesty is a choice about the truth. There is nothing in the world more destructive to truth, or infuriating to the intellect, than a person who insists on being completely and entirely honest about everything.’

  ‘I completely and entirely agree with you,’ Divya said, raising her glass in salute. ‘When I want honesty, I see my doctor.’

  Didier warmed with the encouragement.

  ‘They slink up beside you, and whisper I thought you should know. Then they proceed to destroy your confidence, and trust, and even the quality of your life with their disgusting fragment of the truth. Some scrap of repugnant knowledge that they insist on being honest with you about. Something you’d rather not know. Something you could hate them for telling you. Something you actually do hate them for telling you. And why do they do it? Honesty! Their poisonous honesty makes them do it! No! Give me creative lying, any day, over the ugliness of honesty.’

  ‘Honestly, Didier!’ Kavita mocked.

  ‘You, Kavita, of all people, should see the wisdom of what I am saying. Journalists, lawyers and politicians are people whose professions demand that they almost never tell the whole of the truth. If they did, if they were completely honest about every secret thing they know, civilisation would collapse in a month. Day after day, drink after drink, program after program, it is the lie that keeps us going, not the truth.’

  ‘I love you, Didier!’ Divya shouted. ‘You’re my hero!’

  ‘I’d like to believe you, Didier,’ Naveen remarked, straight-faced. ‘But that perjury thing, it kinda kicks the stool out from under your credibility, you know?’

  ‘Perjury is being honest with your heart,’ Didier responded.

  ‘So, honesty’s a good thing,’ Kavita observed, her finger aimed at Didier’s heart.

  ‘Alas, even Didier is not immune,’ Didier sighed. ‘I am heroic, in the matter of lying. Just ask any policeman in South Bombay. But I am only human, after all, and from time to time I lapse into appalling acts of honesty. I am being honest with you now, and I am ashamed to admit it, by advising you to lie as often as you can, until you can lie with complete honesty, as I do.’

  ‘You love the truth,’ Kavita observed. ‘It’s honesty you hate.’

  ‘You are quite right,’ Didier agreed. ‘Believe me, if you honestly tell the whole of the truth, about anyone at all, someone will want to harm you for it.’

  The group broke up into smaller conversations, Didier agreeing with Kavita, and Naveen arguing with Divya. I spoke to the young woman sitting near me.

  ‘We haven’t met. My name’s Lin.’

  ‘I know,’ she answered shyly. ‘I’m Sunita. I’m a friend of Kavita. Well, actually, I’m working with Kavita. I’m a cadet journalist.’

  ‘How do you like it, so far?’

  ‘It’s great. I mean, it’s a really great opportunity and all. But I’m hoping to be a writer, like you.’

  ‘Like me?’ I laughed, bewildered.

  ‘I’ve read your short stories.’

  ‘My stories?’

  ‘All five of them. I really like them, but I was too shy to tell you.’

  ‘Just how did you get hold of these stories?’

  ‘Well,’ she faltered, confused. ‘Ranjit gave me – I mean, Mr Ranjit – he gave me your stories to proofread. I searched them for typos, and such.’

  I stared, not wanting to take it out on her, but too angry and confused to hide my feelings. Ranjit had my stories? How? Had Lisa given them to him, behind my back, and against my wishes? I couldn’t understand it.

  ‘I’ve got them right here,’ Sunita said. ‘I was going to have my lunch alone today, and continue proofing, but Miss Kavita asked me to join her.’

  ‘Give them to me, please.’

  She fished around in a large cloth bag, and gave me a folder.

  It was red. I’d filed all of my stories by coloured theme. Red was the file colour I’d chosen for some short stories about urban holy men.

  ‘I didn’t give permission for these stories to be printed,’ I said, checking to see that all five stories were included in the file.

  ‘But –’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ I said softly, ‘and nothing will happen to you. I’ll write a note for Ranjit, and you’ll give it to him, and everything will be okay.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Got a pen?’

  ‘I –’

  ‘Just kidding,’ I said, pulling a pen from my vest pocket.

  The last page, on the last story, had only two lines on it.

  Arrogance is pride’s calling card, and crowds everything with Self. Gratitude is humility’s calling card, and is the space left inside for love.

  It seemed appropriate, as notepaper for Ranjit. I pulled the typed page from the story, wrote the lines again in hand on the new last page, and closed the file.

  ‘Lin!’ Didier cantankered. ‘You are not drinking! Put down that pen at once.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Kavita asked.

  ‘If it’s a will,’ Naveen said, ‘there’s probably a way.’

  ‘If you must know,’ I said, glancing at Kavita, ‘I’m writing a note, to your boss.’

  ‘A love letter?’ Kavita asked, sitting up straight.

  ‘Kinda.’

  I wrote the note, folded it, and gave it to Sunita.

  ‘But no, Lin!’ Didier protested. ‘It is insupportable! You simply must read the note out loud.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There are rules, Lin,’ Didier riposted. ‘And we must break them at every opportunity.’

  ‘That’s crazier than I am, Didier.’

  ‘You must read it to us, Lin.’

  ‘It’s a private note, man.’

  ‘Written in a public place,’ Kavita said, snatching the note from Sunita.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, trying to grab the note back.

  Kavita jumped up quickly and stood a table-width away. She had a raspy voice, the kind of voice that’s interesting because of how much it keeps inside, as it speaks.

  She spoke my note.

  Let me be clear, Ranjit. I think your tycoon model of media baron is an insult to the Fourth Estate, and I wouldn’t let you publish my death notice.

  If you touch any of my work again I’ll visit you, and rearrange you.

  The girl who’s bringing this note has my number. If you take this out on her, if you fire her, or in any way hurt the messenger, she’ll call me, and I’ll visit you, and rearrange you. Stay away from me.

  ‘I love it!’ Kavita laughed. ‘I want to be the one who passes it on.’

  A shout, then the sound of broken glass shattering on the marble floor made us look with others toward the large entrance arch. Concannon was there, locked in a scuffle with several of the Leopold’s waiters.

  He wasn’t alone. There were Scorpion gang men with him. The big guy, Hanuman, was behind Concannon and a few other faces I remembered from that red hour in the warehouse.

  The last to push his way into the doorway was Danda, the torturer with the pencil moustache. There was a leather ear-patch strapped across his left ear.

  Concannon was carrying a sap, a lead weight wrapped in a sewn leather pouch, and fastened by a cord around the wrist. He lashed out with it, striking the Sikh chief of Leopold’s security on the temple. Gasps and cries of horror rose up from all those who witnessed it.

  The tall Sikh waiter crumpled and fell, his legs melting beneath him. Other waiters scrambled to help. Concannon swung at them while they were trying to support their comrade, drawing blood, and felling men.

  The Scorpions burst into the restaurant, pushing tables aside and scattering frightened patrons. Bottles, glasses and plates smashed on the floor, shatt
ering in frothy puddles. Tables rocked and tumbled over. Chairs skittered away from the brawling mass of men. Customers scrambled, falling over the chairs, and slipping on the messy floor.

  Kavita, Naveen and I stood quickly.

  ‘Gonna get messy,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ Kavita said.

  I flicked a glance at her, and saw that she had an empty bottle in one hand and a handbag in the other.

  The nearest exit was blocked with people. There was a corner behind us. If we pushed the table back, Divya and the young girl, Sunita, could get behind it and be safe. I looked at Naveen, and he spoke my thought.

  ‘Divya, get in the corner,’ he said, pointing behind him, his eyes on the fighting.

  For once, the socialite didn’t fight. She grabbed Sunita with her into the corner. I looked at Kavita.

  ‘In there?’ she scoffed. ‘Fuck you.’

  Whatever their reasons for the wild attack, Concannon and the Scorpions had chosen their moment well. It was the dozy half of the afternoon, long before the evening rush of patrons. Half of the Leopold’s waiters were upstairs, catching up on sleep.

  Caught by surprise, the working staff put up a valiant resistance, but they were outnumbered. The struggling, fighting mass of men surged through the restaurant toward us. It had to be slowed, before it could be stopped.

  ‘Let’s fuck these guys up,’ Kavita growled.

  We ran at the gangsters in the mob, trying to move the fight back toward the entrance. A few customers joined us, pushing at the thugs.

  Naveen thumped out punches, precision quick. I pulled one man off a semi-conscious waiter. He lost his balance and fell backwards. Kavita swung her empty beer bottle, slamming it against the man’s head. Other customers kicked at him, as he fell again.

  The sleeping waiters of the night shift, awakened by the owner of Leopold’s, began streaming down the narrow staircase behind us. The forward momentum of the Scorpion thugs stopped. The tide turned. The Scorpions began to stumble backwards.

  Naveen and I were pushed and dragged toward the street with them, caught between enemies and reinforcements. As we neared the door, I found myself face to face with Concannon.